


But There Are Dreams That Cannot Be

by raeldaza



Series: Supernatural [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Crossover, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-21
Updated: 2015-06-21
Packaged: 2018-04-05 09:57:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4175547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raeldaza/pseuds/raeldaza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Les Amis are a group focused on hunting evil supernatural creatures, and newest member Grantaire gets captured on a djinn hunt gone wrong. Enjolras does not take it well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But There Are Dreams That Cannot Be

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [only if for a night](https://archiveofourown.org/works/826303) by [mishcollin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mishcollin/pseuds/mishcollin). 



> Heavily, heavily inspired by the Supernatural episode "What Is and Should Never Be," and is thus set in that world. Think of Les Amis as the Men of Letters (God bless you if you've gotten that far in the series) with a hunter's mentality.

“Grantaire, get in here,” Enjolras calls. Grantaire immediately throws down the knitting that he was completely fucking up (it was so much easier with Joly and Bahorel by his side, guiding his hand movements), and heads out to the main room of headquarters. Enjolras is sitting on the couch, his leg still up on three pillows. The second Grantaire sees the laptop in his lap, he freezes.

He knows exactly where this is going, and he knows exactly where it’s going to end, and he desperately wants to run back to his room, hide under his duvet, make a shitty sock for Eponine’s birthday, and hum until this disappears.

Unfortunately, he’s an adult, or is forced to act like one in polite company, so he takes a step into the room.

“Whatcha got there?”

“A possible case,” Enjolras says, which is as unsurprising as Enjolras’ scowl.

“Really?” He feigns interest, sitting in an armchair across from Enjolras, who hums. He curls his knees up to his chest, clutching them.

“Yeah, some disappearances in a little corner of Chicago. During the last one, the fourth, the girl’s boyfriend got away. I have the report here.” He turns the laptop so Grantaire can see, but without his contacts, it just looks like a bright white light with little, undistinguishable black markings. Grantaire pretends to nod in understanding anyway so Enjolras will turn the laptop back to himself.

“What do you think it is?” Grantaire asks, already resigning himself to the inevitable fight that’s about to ensue.

“Definitely thinking djinn,” Enjolras answers. “Four missing people in four weeks, it goes with their feeding schedule. They all disappeared from the same general location, which is normal. I did a bit of googling, and it’s near an abandoned warehouse, which is definitely their MO. Most damning, though, is that the boyfriend who got away said he saw a pale man with glowing tribal tattoos, and there was a flash of blue light. There’s nothing else that could be.”

“A misbehaving blue LED flashlight?” Grantaire suggests, and then quickly quiets at Enjolras’ glare.

“Definitely a djinn.”

“What is that, like a genie?”

“Yes, they’re from Islamic lore.” Enjolras confirms.

“Alright, you’ll have to tell me about them. I’ll call about Combeferre, get someone on the case—”

“You don’t have to do that,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire braces himself for what he knows is coming. “I can cover it.”

It’s quiet for a few moments, as Grantaire tries to come up with some argument that Enjolras will actually, possibly, maybe, agree to.

“Look, I don’t think that’s the best idea—”

“Who’d be better?” Enjolras interrupts. “Everyone else is one a case, _literally_ everyone else. And we’re just sitting here.”

“I’m sure Feuilly is probably near wrapping up his case—”

“He shouldn’t hurry through a case, he could do a sloppy job and hurt himself,” Enjolras interrupts again. Grantaire knew, absolutely _knew_ this was going to happen, but he’d still rather be practically anywhere else in the world right now.

“But only the Les Amis are filled. We could call out—”

“No,” Enjolras interrupts again, impatient, which makes Grantaire feel a bit like a useless, pleading child. “We can’t trust anyone else to do the job right.”

“Anyone else would do the job better than us.” Enjolras makes an offended noise. “Come on, you know it’s true. I’ve only been training a couple months, and you’re injured. We’re not exactly the prime people to be hunting supernatural creatures.”

“I’m not injured,” Enjolras huffs, sounding like a three year old. A lying three year old.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire starts.

“I’m not indisposedly injured,” Enjolras amends. “I’ve been healing for four weeks.”

“And you’re not healed, which is exactly why they had me stay here to take care of you instead of join them and hunt.” Privately, Grantaire thought this was a fucking mindless decision. Enjolras wasn’t letting Grantaire take care of him, which was a huge surprise to exactly no one. He was foolishly stubborn, and probably set his healing back days, if not weeks, by not allowing Grantaire to bring him food or water or _anything._ It was like Grantaire was a useless puppy, instead of a human set with the specific purpose to make his life easier. Courfeyrac also mentioned, as he was walking out the door with Combeferre for a vampire hunt, that he was to stay to make sure Enjolras didn’t leave the house for any reason, especially a hunt. This was especially stupid to Grantaire, because _as if_ he could convince Enjolras of _anything_ – he didn’t have the rhetoric or argumentative skills, nor the willpower. It felt a little like arguing with the sun – he could shake his fist, and yell, and scream, but in the end, he was completely subject to its power.

“I’m healed enough,” Enjolras insists. “There’s no one else to go, and there’s already been four victims. Someone has to, and we’re the last options. I’m going, final.” He throws his laptop onto the cushion and stands, obviously going to pack. Grantaire wishes his willpower was stronger when Enjolras’ forceful nature took over. He always feels like a self-aware moth to a light; he knows it’s a bad idea, he knows it is assured destruction, but he accepts it, because the intensity, force, and light is worth watching, worth shortening his life for. And who is a moth to tell the light not to shine? In a last ditch effort, Grantaire says,

“Enjolras, come on, you’re barely healed—” Enjolras whirls around, his hair whipping around him, his feet taking a commanding step forward, glare so threatening that Grantaire instinctively shrinks back into his chair.

“If I don’t go, people die. No one else is available. Are you really suggesting that I sit on this couch in my sweatpants watching cartoons while I know someone else is slowly, and tortuously, dying? A death that I could prevent?”

“You’re not at 100%,” Grantaire tries. His fingers tremble against the soft velvet of the chair.

“If I can save someone at 60%, then I am damn well going to do it.”

“I just don’t want you to go down to 0%.” Grantaire says, his voice a little too noticeably emotional.

“I won’t, I promise,” Enjolras says, voice softening noticeably. “Just cover for me when the others get back, okay?”

“Excuse me?” Grantaire says, standing. “I’m going with you.”

“No,” Enjolras says, sounding so sure that Grantaire actually twitches his hand from an intense urge to punch him. “You’re not experienced enough.”

“You’re not going alone to a hunt, you fucking moron. Plus, I have the keys.”

“Give them over, now.”

“Nope,” he says, popping the p. “You’re stuck with me, like gum to your shoe.” Enjolras twitches, before shrugging violently.

“Fine, whatever. Give me the keys, though, I want to load the car.” Grantaire squints his eyes at him.

“You’re not going to drive off without me, are you?”

“No,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire wishes he could believe him.

“If you do, I swear to God I’ll call the cops on you. With all the guns and fake IDs in the car, that should ensure your detainment until I can catch up.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes. “I’m not going to leave without you.”

Grantaire sighs. “For the record, I think this is an awful idea. You’re still limping; no one else knows where to go if we disappear; I still don’t know how to fight djinns, the list goes on.”

“Keys, Grantaire.” Enjolras holds his hand out expectantly. And, with a sigh and a deep, irrepressible foreboding, Grantaire pulls them from his pocket, and hands them over.

* * *

 “You shouldn’t be here,” Enjolras mutters around two hours in. Grantaire lifts his eyes in surprise, noting Enjolras’ hands tightening and loosening on the wheel.

“I appreciate that,” Grantaire replies, trying not to let it sting.

“You’re not trained enough for this.”

“Fuck you,” Grantaire says mildly. “I’ve been at this for months, I’ve been physically training with Jehan and Bahorel, I can hold my own.”

“Training in a cement basement with still targets and trainers who don’t actually want to hurt you is much different than reality. You have zero experience in active work.”

“Fuck you,” Grantaire repeats, stronger this time. “I’ve been on three missions—”

“You’ve only been on armed missions twice, and it was with the entire group.” Enjolras bites. “Being a pair is much different, and you’re not prepared. This is dangerous.”

“How so? Explain to me how it’s so much more dangerous having _two_ people with guns to try to kill a monster, having someone to watch your back instead of being alone, have four hands and four eyes and four legs—”

“For pairs, you have to be completely in sync. You have to completely trust the other person, instinctively, to the point that you follow their orders before even completely registering them. You must trust them like you trust gravity.”

“I trust you,” Grantaire says, and tries not to feel self-conscious when Enjolras spares him a glance.

“Well,” Enjolras continues after a slightly awkward moment. “That’s well and good to say, but we have no practice with each other in action. Words are meaningless without paired experience and action.”

“And here we are, about to get real experience and real action. We’re never going to build this kind of trust without actually testing it, Enjolras, in action, in reality. You realize that, right?”

“I’d much rather not test it when lives are at stake and we have no backup.”

“Lives are always going to be at stake, and when better to learn you can rely on me than when you literally have no choice?”

“I don’t know I can rely on you.”

Grantaire bites his cheek, hard enough that he tastes a minor amount of blood on his tongue. “You can. You think the others would have left you with me if they thought I couldn’t handle you?”

“They thought we’d be at headquarters the entire time,” Enjolras says, raising his voice. Grantaire tries not to shrink back into the car door. “They thought you’d be getting me water, changing the channel, washing the dishes. Not having my back when lives are on the line.”

“You’re vulnerable like this,” Grantaire argues, and raises his voice when Enjolras goes to interrupt. “You _are._ You only broke your leg four weeks ago. You can’t even walk on it properly. This whole fucking mission is a fucking terrible idea, but since you insist on it, I insist you have someone making sure you can run away, if need be. And I’m the default.”

“You’re not experienced enough.”

“I’m better than nothing.”

“I doubt it.”

“How do you figure that, oh wise one?” Grantaire says, anger lowering his voice.

“You’re a liability,” Enjolras snaps, and Grantaire can’t ignore the sting this time. “You’re untrained; you’re not prepared; you have no experience, and you never take anything seriously.”

“I like to think I could take it seriously if it was one of our lives on the line,” Grantaire says, a little too hurt and a little too tired so sound biting. Enjolras glances over.

“You haven’t proven that,” Enjolras says, but his voice is slightly softer. “This is foolish. If we’re going to take this monster down, and _save lives,_ I need to be 100% focused, which I can’t be if I’m worried about you. We’re going to leave you in the hotel.” Enjolras nods to himself, sounding sure, like this was something that they discussed and planned and was actually happening. Grantaire has to marvel at his self-assurance.

“The only way you’re leaving me somewhere is if you physically handcuff me to a steel pipe.”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras sighs, sounding weary.

“Can it,” Grantaire interrupts. “I’m not leaving you alone to die.”

“I’m experienced; I won’t die by a djinn.”

“They’re not dangerous?”

“Of course they’re dangerous.” Enjolras sounds like he wants to hit his head on the dashboard, and leave it there. “But I have experience. I’ll be careful. I swear to you, I won’t die. But I may if my attention is distracted.”

“Enjolras, you never hunt alone. That’s rule one. That’s _your_ rule one, of _your_ group.” Enjolras’ hands tighten on the steering wheel again, but Grantaire is too tired to tell if he’s actually angry or just frustrated.

“I’m not risking you,” Enjolras says after a long moment. Grantaire looks over, but Enjolras is staring straight ahead, at the dark, long road.

“And I’m not risking you. You’re having backup, whether you like it or not, and if you argue, I swear to fucking God I will call Combeferre this instant and tell him you’re not in bed and are trying to hunt alone.” Enjolras sighs heavily, knowing he’s lost.

“Take a nap,” he says after a long, torturous moment. “I’ll wake you come Illinois to brief you on djinns.”

“Can’t wait,” Grantaire mutters, letting his head rest on the window. The car keeps bumping on rocks and potholes in the road that the government doesn’t even know exist to fix, intermediately slamming his head upon the glass. He tries to focus on the slight ache it gives his head instead of the large one he feels somewhere in the middle of his chest from Enjolras literally rathering to go against a supernatural beast alone than have him around.

* * *

 “Grantaire.” He opens his eyes blearily, blinking away the sleep. He yawns widely, and shuffles to sit up, his leg twitching from cramps.

“What’s up?” he asks, trying not to slur his words.

“We’re a couple hours out, we should talk about djinn, brief you on what to expect.” Grantaire nods sleepily, trying to will away his tiredness. It’s silent and dark, and the neon green lights of the car clock say 3:38. All he can hear are the tires on pavement, and outside is a deep, dark night, except for the occasional lit up advertisement, a bright reminder of the consumerist day in the ethereal void.

“Grantaire, you with me?” Enjolras asks, voice soft and quiet. Grantaire looks away from the window, and over at Enjolras driving. He looks soft in this light, much softer than normal, much more human. Grantaire looks down at his hands, his mind too tired to stop his expression from giving away the ever-present heartache.

“Yeah,” he replies, closing his eyes. “I’m with you.”           

“What do you know about djinns?”

“Not much, just your basic I Dream of Jeannie shit.”

“They don’t grant wishes in that sense,” Enjolras says. He’s blinking slow, like he’s tired but refusing to listen to his body. “Anymore, they’re very solitary monsters. The hide in remote areas, like caves, or mountains, trees—”

“Abandoned warehouses,” Grantaire supplies.

“In the modern day, yes, absolutely. They’ll either wait for someone to stumble upon them, or lure their prey. Their largest advantage is their stealth. They are absolutely quiet, extremely, _extremely_ fast, and masters at hiding. Once they have found their prey, they will hypnotize them by light. When they pass out, the djinn puts them in a dream like trance. In modern culture, they are known to be wish granters, because this trance sends their mind to an alternate reality in their mind where they have, and are living, their deepest, most intimate desires. I’ve heard that time in one’s head is messed with; the djinn will prey for several days before it uses all the blood, but in the victim’s mind, it’ll be a lifetime. The only way to bring your subconscious back from it is to die in the alternate reality.”

“So,” Grantaire says, squinting at Enjolras. “What you’re telling me is that djinn’s peacefully, and painlessly, knock people out, and send their mind to a reality where all their wildest dreams come true, and they get to live it out their entire life?”

Enjolras nods. “Essentially.” 

“And you’re calling them victims?” Enjolras’ head snaps over, and suddenly he’s frowning at Grantaire, a little too long for what Grantaire’s comfortable with, or would be, if there were anyone else on the road.

“How are they not victims?”

“I’m just saying, the djinn’s reality sounds better than actual reality.”

“How?” Enjolras acts, actually sounding incredulous, which is sort of baffling. This doesn’t really seem like a hard one to Grantaire.

“You get to live your entire life in your fantasy world. How is that not better than reality? By _definition_ that’s better than reality.”

“It’s not real,” Enjolras says, still sounding perplexed. “It can’t be better. It’s not real.”

“It’s real to you when you’re in there.”

“But it’s not,” Enjolras repeats, voice still resolute. “Are you really saying you’d rather live in a complete lie, a fabrication?”

“It’s a better world. Wouldn’t you like to live in a world with no pain, no suffering, no war? Peace? I’m sure that’d be your fantasy.”

“I’d like that in _reality._ If it was the djinn’s world, it’s all in my head. I’m completely gone, and there’s a _real world_ of millions of suffering people I am letting down to live in an easy, painless, happy, complete lie. How does that sound appealing?”

“Only you could make a fantasy world sound bad.” Grantaire says, sighing.

“It’s selfish. And even if it wasn’t, it’s not real. Even if it was my perfect world, I couldn’t accept it knowing it’s all in my head.”

“I’m just saying, man, if I was taken, I’d probably just stay. A fake happy existence sounds much more appealing than the fucking dismal reality I deal with every day.” Enjolras bites his lip, and side eyes Grantaire.

“You’re not…” Enjolras coughs awkwardly. “You’re not making any plans to like, have to the djinn take you—”

“Fuck no,” Grantaire says, yawning. “Give me a little credit.” Enjolras lifts his hands momentarily off the wheel in surrender.

“Didn’t think so, just making sure,” he says.

Before Enjolras mentioned it, it hadn’t even crossed Grantaire’s mind, in all honesty. But, thinking on it, he can kind of see the appeal. It’d be choosing to die, a suicide for all intents and purposes, but it’d be one that, to his mind alone, would probably extend his life (he did not expect to live long in this business). In a way, it’d be choosing happiness over his own depression, a life of meaning and fulfillment instead of the bullshit he wades through every day. Half the time he feels like he’s only treading water, not swimming, just kicking his legs so his mouth stays above the ocean, so his lungs don’t fill and he doesn’t drown; and he’s always thought the solution was to keep on fighting and kicking until it felt like swimming, but maybe the answer is tying a ball and chain to his foot, and letting himself sink down down down, let the water cover his head, fill his lungs, press him down under; it’d look like choosing death, but for the few moments spreading from life to the veil, it’s choosing a quiet bliss.

Maybe fighting isn’t bravery; maybe choosing your own moment of selfish freedom is.

He takes a deep breath, and knocks his head upon the window, trying to slam the thoughts from his mind.

It wasn’t the first time he’d had them, and it wouldn’t be the last, but it was time he started concentrating on what Enjolras had been waffling about for the past three minutes, something about the djinn’s appearance, something about being blue, something more important than his repressed nihilistic, destructive tendencies.

Swallowing, he tunes into the melodic cadence of Enjolras’ voice, and tries not to be lulled back to sleep. 

* * *

 Grantaire wakes by the car being violently shoved into a parking position. He lurches forward, his head hitting painfully on the window.

“We’re here.” Enjolras says. Grantaire yawns, blinks blearily, and looks out the window. It’s clear they are in a _very_ shitty part of Chicago; there doesn’t seem to be an open shop in sight, just cracked pavement, weeds poking through the cement sidewalks, graffiti and trash littering the streets and buildings. The warehouse looks incredibly shifty; its brick base is dark with rain, mold, and grime, almost all its windows are blown out, and a broken barbed wire fence that is failing to do its job surrounds the perimeter. Enjolras looks over.

“Make sure you get out quietly. We don’t warn to alert him to our presence.” Grantaire rolls his eyes.

“Not a fucking moron, I must keep reminding you,” he mutters, getting out of the car, and managing to shut it quietly and yet bitchily at the same time. Enjolras sighs deeply from inside the car.

“I know you’re not,” he says to himself, before shaking off the irritation and low-level guilt, and stepping out of the car. Grantaire’s leaning against the car waiting, his dark green canvas jacket dwarfing him. Enjolras spends a second too long desperately wishing he’d left him home, left him _safe,_ before forcing him to accept that this is the reality and he might as well deal with it.

“What’s the plan, oh fearless leader?” Grantaire asks.

“I’m not the leader. We’re partners in this.”

“If that’d be true, we’d have made the plan together, instead of just going with whatever the hell you say, which is what we’re going to do, and you know it.” Enjolras doesn’t dignify that with an answer. “You parked in a mud puddle,” Grantaire comments, wiping his feet on the tires.

“Does it matter?” Enjolras asks.

“Well, we’re going to leave muddy footprints in the warehouse, and if we need a quick get away, I’m not sure your 1988 _Rabbit_ is going to be able to make it easily out of 6 inches of mud. Plus, now I’ve got to wash my boots. Or, better yet, you have to wash my boots.”

“I’m not washing your shoes, Grantaire.”

“You got them muddy,” Grantaire points out, which has Enjolras letting out a steadying breath so he doesn’t snap.

“Shut up,” he ends up saying, which makes Grantaire shrug, like he expected nothing more.  Enjolras moves to the trunk, opens it, and hands Grantaire a revolver, which he promptly stuffs in his coat pocket.

“Hold it,” Enjolras says.

“What?”

“You need to hold it.” Enjolras says, gesturing at this pocket. “You can’t tell the djinn, ‘hey, wait for me to get my gun out of my pocket.’ You need it on hand.”

“Isn’t it just back up? I seem to remember you saying a silver knife dipped in lamb’s blood kills it. I distinctly remember that conversation, and also distinctly remember stopping at a farm to murder a lamb, which by the way, I am still traumatized by.” Enjolras ignores the last bit.

“I get the knife. You’re going to cover me with the gun.”

“What fucking good will that do?” Grantaire asks, voice rising. “They aren’t killed by guns. If it does go after you, I won’t have anything to kill it with.”

“It’ll be a distraction while I kill it.”

“You’re basically giving yourself a machine gun and me a stick of butter.”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras grits out.

“Do you _want_ me to die? You’re giving me no defense against this creature—”

“I’m trying to keep you safe,” Enjolras bites out, too loud.

“ _How?_ By keeping me defenseless?” Enjolras glares. He doesn’t have the time nor the inclination to have this argument. The truth is, without the knife, Grantaire won’t feel tempted to hunt the djinn. If he only has a gun, and no means of killing it, he won’t go after it, and may escape with his life. They don’t randomly attack; but they will defend themselves. With a basically useless gun, he’ll be forced to run, forced to save himself.

He _knows_ this won’t be a convincing argument to Grantaire, though, so he just glares, and snaps,

“If I’m the leader, then fucking listen to me. You get the gun, that’s final. We are going to go in, _quietly,_ me first, you flanking. You will follow my lead, follow my instructions, and you will not step a toe out of line. We will locate the djinn first, and if at all possible, sneak up on it. I want you to stay _out of my way,”_ and thus the djnn’s, he doesn’t say, “and only intervene if I tell you to, for distraction purposes. Have I made myself clear?”

Without waiting for an answer, he stalks to the entrance. Grantaire stands for a moment in his spot. After an angry exhale, he shakes his head, and follows.

* * *

“This is stupid,” Grantaire mutters under his breath for the fifth time.

“It’s stupider to keep talking while in a hunt and bring the djinn’s attention to us.”

“This is fucking stupid,” Grantaire repeats. It’s like the sentence is on a broken record in his mind – no matter how much he wishes he could think of something else, have some clarity of mind, focus on the task at hand – all he can think of is how absolute fucking stupid this hunt is.

“Shut up,” Enjolras hisses. And Grantaire does, at least aloud, though his mind repeats it with every quiet step they take. Enjolras’ knife is out and ready, bared down, and he looks fierce and regal and like a holy commander of war – but Grantaire can tell that they’re going slower than normal, that his left foot is dragging, that Enjolras’ weight is shifted awkwardly, and he wonders briefly if he’s killed them both by letting Enjolras have those keys.

“There are two hallways up ahead,” Enjolras whispers, gesturing with his knife. “Both will probably lead to large storage rooms. Either could be the one he’s holding the victims.”

“We could split up,” Grantaire suggests. Rationally, he knows it’s not a brilliant idea, but he also knows he needs to get himself and Enjolras out of here as quickly as absolutely possible, and checking the rooms separately would speed up that process, as long as neither died in the course.

“Absolutely not,” Enjolras whispers, voice somehow still firm in its undertone. “That’s dangerous and stupid. Stick behind me, we’ll try the right first.” Grantaire says nothing, and quietly follows him several steps. Grantaire makes sure to keep a distance and keep his pace absolutely silent, so Enjolras doesn’t notice when he stops, and slowly backs up, and turns the other direction. He silently pads to the other hallway, far too aware of his pulse and breathing that suddenly sounds like a drumbeat. Distantly, he knows splitting up is a terrible idea – he’d practically been arguing exactly why being alone was dumb the entire ride with Enjolras – but at this point, all he is concerned with is getting Enjolras, and to some level, himself, out safely. He couldn’t care less about the victims  – which he was sure Enjolras would have some choice words about if he ever knew, but fuck him – Enjolras is injured, Grantaire is a subpar hunter at very best, and this is a dangerous supernatural creature. Excuse him for not thinking the odds were overly in their favor, and he’d be damned if let Enjolras die for a half dead, probably idiotic, random teenager from fuckwhere Illinois.

He pushes open the door, and slips through it, only to freeze solidly in place. A seven-foot tall figure stands around two feet from the door, clad completely in black, skin pale, with glowing blue tattoos and eyes stark against the shadow that clouds him.

“Shit,” Grantaire says, and has never meant it more.

“I was rather hoping you’d split up.” The djinn cocked his head. “Didn’t think you’d be stupid enough to do it, though. Hunters are usually more careful.” Grantaire nodded, swallowing loudly and with difficultly.

“Never had a lick of sense, that’s me,” Grantaire murmurs, before yelling at the top of his lungs, “Enjolras, _run!_ ” before a blue hand grabs his neck, and everything’s going dark dark dark –

His last thought is that he hopes Enjolras gets to see Combeferre again, which, even he can admit, is a rather stupid last thought to have.

* * *

“It’s not here,” Enjolras mutters, after coming to the end of the hallway on the right, and looking through the door. His leg absolutely kills, his hip throbs, his shin aches, and he isn’t sure how much weight the leg can hold. He’s starting to become more convinced that this actually is a stupid idea – Grantaire has a point, he’s no good to victims if he’s also dead. He could have tried the police. Sighing, he turns to tell Grantaire this, and that they should subsequently probably leave, and freezes. The hall is empty behind him.

“Grantaire,” he whispers, body tense with cold terror. He can feel panic building in his chest, and he whispers more urgently, _“Grantaire!”_ His muscles are starting to seize, and his head is beginning to pound; he isn’t sure what to even do – he’s normally good in a crisis, and he doesn’t know if it’s the pain from his leg, or just that this is Grantaire, the man whom he is completely responsible for, let alone other reasons – but he’s completely at a loss. He tries to clear his thoughts. Grantaire must have slipped away, because the djinn couldn’t be that quiet when stealing someone. _Why would he slip away? What for?_ His mind questions, but unhelpfully doesn’t answer.

He’s starting to cold sweat, and his hands are trembling against his thighs. He tries to tighten them into fists, but it only makes his fist shake. He bites his lip hard, and tries to focus. He just has to retrace his steps. Grantaire probably just went back to the car. There’s no need for panic.

He finally makes the decision to just go back to the car, when he hears an unmistakable voice scream from across the building – “Enjolras, run!” – and it’s paired with a royal blue burst of light, and the building rocks slightly, and then suddenly it’s quiet, the quiet that only comes from being completely and utterly alone, a quiet that is completely solitary.

For several seconds, Enjolras is horrified and shocked into complete paralyzation, until the cold, horrored panic grips his heart again. His mind is screaming at him to just _do something_ , and he’s rarely, if ever, felt this helpless in his entire life. His fingers trembling horribly, he grabs his cell phone out of his breast pocket. He tries to dial Combeferre’s speed dial, which in theory should be easy, since it’s one number, but it takes him three tries. It dials twice.

“Enjolras?” Combeferre asks, sounding happy. There’s some kind of sound behind him, but suddenly Enjolras is yelling into the phone, unable to focus himself into calmly explaining the situation.

“Grantaire and I went on a hunt and it _took him,_ Combeferre, it _took him,_ and it’s gone, and he’s gone, and I need you _now,_ I need you to _find_ him. Do what you do and find him now, find him, Combeferre, you need to _find_ him, it took him, oh God, it took him, it took him on my watch, he’s _gone,”_ Enjolras’s breath is more like a wrecking sob, and the sound behind Combeferre instantly disappears. When he talks again, his voice is calm, low, and if Enjolras was focusing, he could tell just how worried Combeferre was by the sternness in his tone.

“Calm down, now, and explain the situation.” Enjolras takes four shallow breaths, before retelling the entire situation. In hindsight, he can’t believe how reckless he was with both their lives. And he’ll know Combeferre will mention it, but not now; it’s not the time.

“Djinn’s can’t teleport, they simply can move large distances at extreme speeds. He probably hypnotized Grantaire, which was the light, and when he screamed, he must have grabbed him and run. He must still be around. They prefer remote areas, like empty buildings or abandoned crevices.”

“We’re in _Chicago,”_ Enjolras says, desperate. “Are you really suggesting we check every abandoned building?”

“They keep their victims alive for weeks at a time, and you said there’s four other possible victims. It needs to be a place big enough to easily contain five people.”

“A bathroom can fit five people if you’re careful about it,” Enjolras snaps, and immediately regrets it. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, keep going. I’m stressed.”

“I know,” Combeferre says, voice a little too knowing. “We’ll figure it out. Djinn’s are grandiose, they’d want as big of a place as possible; they consider themselves on leagues with angels. So we probably can rule out bathrooms.” Enjolras wants to acknowledge the forgiveness in Combeferre’s voice, but he can’t quite manage it. “He’s been hunting at the warehouse, taking in bait there, probably people who are trespassing who like ruin porn and want some arty photographs. It wouldn’t be surprising if people disappear in shady parts of Chicago. He probably also wouldn’t want to hunt in populated areas, because there’s a better chance of accidentally being discovered. I doubt he’d leave the city, because there’s no real place to go. Cities have many abandoned places and an unlimited food source.” Enjolras can’t help but be absurdly grateful that Combeferre thinks as he rambles. “He also would want the hide away to be a good distance from where he hunts, so police don’t come and find the bodies. But there also must be an easy pathway from this building to the next. He can’t exactly take the subway. So, we’re looking for abandoned, large building on the outskirts of Chicago with an easy, backroads route to the warehouse you’re in now.”

“Yep,” Enjolras replies, only because he feels he has to say something. He’s pushing on his eyes with his hand, pressing hard enough that he’s slightly worried about damaging them. The pain feels oddly good – grounding.

“Enjolras.” Combeferre’s tone is tender. “We can work with this. This is possible.”

“It has to be,” Enjolras says, taking a deep breath.

“I’ll tell everyone, we’ll come and meet you at the warehouse. I can’t speak for anyone else, but Courfeyrac and I can be there in eight hours.”

“Thanks,” Enjolras says, the word weighty, meaning it for a thousand different reasons.

“You’re welcome,” Combeferre answers with the same weight, because he always knows. He hangs up, and Enjolras stares blankly at the screen for several moments. The light hurts his eyes slightly. He’s sitting on the ground of a dirty, abandoned warehouse, his leg is screaming in pain, his friends are coming to meet him, but all he can do is put his forehead on his knees, and try not to cry.

He doesn’t quite succeed, and it’s the first time he’s cried in over fifteen years, and he’s not even sure why.

* * *

When Grantaire rouses, he spends several seconds being blissfully comfortable, before he awakens enough to realize that he’s never _once_ woken up happy, so there must be something very wrong. He goes on edge, in stiff hunter mode, tensing his muscles, and he tries to take a mental, sensory catalogue of what’s around him. He’s naked, which is an interesting realization, but not necessarily important; what is _much_ more important is that it feels like there’s someone _else_ naked who’s cuddling him, which is definitely a more fascinating, and probably problematic, development. There’s sunlight on his back, and his pillow feels like down feathers, and his stomach is pleasantly full, and he feels warm and soft and content in a way he hasn’t in recent memory. It takes him a few moments, but Grantaire finally makes the connection that he doesn’t feel _wanting –_ not for _anything,_ which hasn’t been true in, God, decades. There’s no craving in his blood for a cigarette, though that has been incessant since he started when he was twelve, and even worse when he stopped last year. There’s no pounding, prickling in the back of his mind wanting for a drug, something harder, anything harder. There’s no bubble in his stomach and scratch in his throat and swirl in his head begging for alcohol, any type, as much as possible. There’s no shame and disgust and self-revulsion and panic and depression and sad, empty, all encompassing loneliness, no sense of patheticness, apathy, no longing, no self-pity, no self hatred – he just feels warm.

It’s bizarre.

He feels like himself, just a version of himself he hasn’t known in a very long time - one he more dreamed for more than actually thought would ever make a reappearance.

It should feel wrong, waking up to feel so different, but it just feels _right,_ for the first time in so, so long.

He knows he should take a moment, try to figure out what’s going on, who the fuck is laying beside him because really what the shit, but more than anything, he just wants to revel in this feeling of wholeness, because he doubts it will last long.

Nothing ever does with him.

He basks in it for several long minutes, just listening to his own breath, and the vague heartbeat of whoever is lying next to him. Distantly, he realizes he isn’t actually sure what is last memory is. He knows Enjolras broke his leg, but what then? He was going to stay and take care of him, was he not? When was that?

Slowly, he opens his eyes.

And then promptly falls out of the bed when he gets an eyeful of blonde, unmistakable curly hair.

The thud, and much more likely, his small yell, wakes Enjolras, who Grantaire is staring at wildly from the floor.

“Waz happenin?” Enjolras asks drowsily, looking down to Grantaire. Grantaire looks up, horrified.

“I honestly have no idea,” he says, trying not to sound panicked. “I swear, I just work up like this, I didn’t climb in bed with you naked or anything, or I don’t remember—”

“I mean, why are you on the floor?” Enjolras interrupts, sitting up, rubbing his eyes.

“I fell,” Grantaire says, eyes still wide.

“Well, get up, and get back in here.” Enjolras says, laying back down with a humph. “We have another half hour before we need to be up.”

“What the _fuck_ —” Grantaire can’t help but ask. “What the fuck is going on? Why am I—” he looks around. “—in your room, in your bed, naked?” Enjolras turns over, to stare at him, eyes squinted.

“Is there any reason you wouldn’t be?” Grantaire lets out a bark of manic laughter.

“Yes, yes, I can think of three. Or hundreds more, possibly, if you give me half a millisecond.” Enjolras frowns, and sits back up.

“Are you feeling alright? I know you hit your head on the hunt yesterday. I told you to be more careful,” he says with an exasperated fondness that has Grantaire reeling. “Do you have a concussion? What’s the last thing you remember?”

“You broke your leg on a mission with a werewolf, and everyone else paired off for other hunts, and being the newest I was left home to care for you?” Enjolras throws off the covers, and scrambles down to meet with Grantaire.

“That was over a _year_ ago, Grantaire. Come on, get up, get dressed, we’re going to see Joly.”

* * *

 His phone rings, and he answers it without even realizing.

“Enjolras, we’re ten minutes out. Where are you?” Courfeyrac asks. Enjolras stays silent a moment, before clearing his head with a shake.

“I’m still at the warehouse,” he rasps. He lost his tears several hours ago, but his throat still aches with the residual hiccups and coughs.

“Why? Are you searching for clues?”

“Yes, a little,” Enjolras says. In actuality, he’d been sitting on the floor for almost two hours, not thinking of anything and just generally hating himself and feeling helpless and weak in an entirely unfamiliar way. He eventually snapped back into himself, realizing that sitting and moping wasn’t actually going to help Grantaire, and scouring the place down for any and all clues of where the djinn was from just might. After several hours of coming up with _nothing,_ not even a strand of hair or piece of lint as evidence, he kept flitting back and forth between hysterical worry and shocked numbness.

“Did you find anything?”

“No,” he says, rubbing his eyes.

“Okay, well, just give us a few, okay?”

“Yeah,” he not responds, listening to Courfeyrac hang up on him. Shaking a little, he stands, and heads outside. Just as promised, they roll up ten minutes later, on the dot.

“Hey,” Courfeyrac says, the moment he steps out of the car. “Come here.” He walks straight up to Enjolras, and wraps his arms tightly around him. It takes him a second to respond, but the gentle act of kindness breaks something in him, something that had already broken, and had just started to mend as he was searching. He squeezes back roughly, sticks his nose in his neck, and starts to shudder.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Courfeyrac whispers into his hair. “It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay.”

“It’s not,” he says, muffled by Courfeyrac’s throat. “He’s gone, and it’s because of me. He’s _gone._ It’s all my fault.”

“None of that,” Courfeyrac says, one hand patting down his curls, the other rubbing circles into his back. “Don’t say that.”

“But it _is,_ ” Enjolras says, pulling back. He sniffs, and rubs his eye, feeling like a child. “He told me not to go on this hunt. He warned me. He didn’t want to, and I forced him. And then I didn’t keep a good enough eye on him. Hell, he wouldn’t even be in this profession if it wasn’t for me.”

“If it wasn’t for you, he’d be dead.” Courfeyrac reminds him, looking him straight in the eye, holding his wrist. Enjolras shrugs. “No shrugging, it’s true. You saved him from those shapeshifters; they would have eaten him if you didn’t get him out on time.”

“But he didn’t have to drop his whole life—”

“No,” Combeferre says from behind him. “He didn’t, but he did. And that wasn’t your choice; it was his. It’s not by your hand he’s in this field. He wanted to drop it all and follow you, he wanted to join and learn to be a hunter.”

“I didn’t have to agree.”

“Enjolras,” Courfeyrac said, bringing his attention back. “Who does placing the blame help?”

“No one,” Enjolras mutters, familiar with his own words.

“Exactly. Stop feeling guilty and just tell us what happened, so we can actually be productive, and help save him.” Enjolras nods.

“Follow me, I’ll show you where I think he was taken.” He leads them into the warehouse.

“There’s muddy footprints in here. Are they yours?” Courfeyrac asks. Enjolras visibly tenses, before nodding curtly, and walking on.

* * *

 “Are you _sure_ he looks okay?” Enjolras asks Joly for the sixth time, who is currently shining a flashlight into Grantaire’s eyes. Joly steps back, and shrugs.

“Yeah, physically, he’s fine. The hit on the head seemed to give him temporary memory loss. And while that sucks, it’s not dangerous. We just have to wait for him to get his memories back.”

“Love,” Enjolras takes Grantaire’s hand, making him freeze. “You said you last remembered me breaking my leg, about 16 months ago?”

“Yeah, yeah. I remember I was knitting Eponine socks, and then, nothing.” Grantaire stares at Enjolras “You’re saying it’s over a year later, and we’re dating?” Enjolras nods.

“Been about eight months, now.”

“How?” Grantaire asks, stunned.

“I realized how much more there was to you than meets the eye, you looked over some of my more obvious flaws. It’s not that hard to imagine, is it?” Grantaire just stares, because yes, yes it is. His love for Enjolras never felt like a flame, it was more like embers; constantly burning, just as hot, never ending, but not encompassing, not consuming, not obvious, not distracting. He loved him deeply inside, in a part of him he couldn’t even touch, couldn’t even name. His love was so firmly mixed with gratitude and respect and admiration that he wasn’t even sure where loving _him_ started and idol worship ended. It was a part of him that was soft, unbelievably vulnerable, the one thing that people knew not to press, like a fresh purple bruise. It wasn’t anything he even _considered_ could be reciprocated.

“You’re going to be fine,” Joly says, putting a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Go and talk with the others, maybe they can help jog your memory.” Grantaire finds himself nodding, and letting himself be led down to where the training boxes are. Bahorel is in one, squaring off with Jehan, which is a fight that is far more equal that it appears to be on the outside.

“R!” Bahorel yells, when he catches sight of him. His distraction causes Jehan to kick him square in the stomach, knocking the wind from him, and Grantaire winces in sympathy.

“How you doing, R?” Jehan says, blowing a long, blonde hair from his face.

“Not so well,” Enjolras answers for him. Nice to see something’s don’t change. “The concussion caused some memory loss. He doesn’t remember the last year or so.” Jehan gasps and Bahorel frowns deeply.

“Are you feeling okay, other than that?” Jehan asks, putting a reassuring hand on his. Grantaire can’t help but to notice how _similar_ they all are to whom he remembers – this must not be a dream, a dream couldn’t make such accurate recreations.

“A little dazed by all this, but I’m fine. I feel good, actually.” And he does, the calm, contentness remaining from morning.

“So you don’t remember all our training days?”

“Sadly, no. I’m back to square two, or three, or something.”

“Sucks, man,” Bahorel says, thumping him on the back, knocking out all of Grantaire’s breath. “You were getting as good as us.” At this, Grantaire frowns, because that seems off. For one, Bahorel is never one to admit that someone is better than him; not many are, but when they come around, he’s as stubborn as a mule in this regard. Secondly, and much more importantly, every other Amis had been training for at least three years. Jehan had been doing martial arts from practically birth, and Bahorel had been getting in, and winning, fights since he was on the playground. No matter how much time or effort Grantaire put in, there is absolutely _no way_ he could be anywhere near their level, _ever,_ much less in a year. He’d never catch up.

Frowning confusedly, he doesn’t respond.

“It’s true!” Jehan chirps from beside him. “You were badass on that vamp hunt two weeks ago. Took off four heads, by yourself. We would have died without you there.”

Grantaire also seriously doubts this. It sounds like something he’d think of in the shower, a hypothetical conversation with an imaginary person, the kind you have when you let your mind run in fantasyland.

“Well, I’m fucking starving. Losing your mind didn’t make you lose your taste buds, right? Still like chili?” Bahorel asks.

“Ah, yeah,” Grantaire says, nodding. “Chili’s great.”

“Come on, man,” Bahorel says, guiding him up the stairs. Enjolras follows behind.

* * *

“Eat your chili, Enjolras,” Courfeyrac says. Enjolras has been staring outside the window at the cloudy day, completely lost to his thoughts. “You can’t save him on an empty stomach.”

“Why would he separate from me?” Enjolras asks, looking lost. Courfeyrac eyes Combeferre, who just shrugs helplessly at the non-sequitr. “I know he was angry with me, and wanted to prove he could do things on his own, and maybe I was a bit harsh, but I was just worried about him. He should have known fucking better. Why would he separate?”

“I don’t know,” Combeferre says. “And we won’t know, and we can’t know. So eat, which is something you can do."

“He’s out there dying, and we’re eating in a roadside diner.”

“We’re human, Enjolras, we need sustenance. We’ll work as hard as we can, but we’re mortal.”

“Fuck mortality,” Enjolras says far too loudly, because their half of the restaurant all turn to look at him.

“You need to get a grip,” Combeferre says, a little harsh. “You need to think, put this concern into something productive.”

“I know, I know,” Enjolras mutters, angry. “I just...I just  _can’t_ this time. My mind is whirling and it won’t stop moving and it won’t stop showing me pictures of him strung up, _dead_.” He puts his head in his hands.

“What’s different this time?” Combeferre asks, sounding honestly curious. Courfeyrac knocks into him, expression firmly saying _‘don’t.’_

 _“What?”_ Combeferre mouths back. Courfeyrac just shakes his head at him, used to his friend’s intuitive nature in everything except love.

“Part of it is because he’s my responsibility,” Enjolras says, sounds muffled by his hands. “I brought him into this life, so it’s my fault if he gets hurt in the line of duty. It’s my responsibility to make sure he’s properly trained, and knows lore, and how to fight, and can protect himself. It’s on me if he’s taken. It’s on me. And getting him back whole is my responsibility. It isn’t for anyone else. He’s the only one who’s completely mine, my concern.”

“Is that why you were so strangely intent on those training and school lessons?” Combeferre asks. Courfeyrac just rolls his eyes, having known this from the beginning.

“Of course,” Enjolras snaps. “And that’s why it was so goddamn frustrating when he’d rather hang around Joly or Bossuet or drink or do literally _anything else_ than adequately prepare himself for the line of fire. He’s such a fucking dumbass.”

“He’s a dumbass we’ve got to save,” Courfeyrac supplies, taking a spoonful of his soup. “So eat up.”

“If that fool didn’t hate me so much, we wouldn’t be in this position. He would have just taken the time out with me and learned.” Enjolras says to himself. Combeferre and Courfeyrac exchange glances.  

“Enjolras,” Courfeyrac starts. He stops. He doesn’t know how to go about this. “Enjolras,” He tries again. “I don’t think he hated you.”

“Of course he did. He refused to train physically with me—”

“Probably because you always made him go for hours and hours and hours and hit him hard so he’d get the real effect, when Jehan and Bahorel would just show him proper moves.”

“—And he refused to sit down and study with me about lore—” Enjolras continues, like there wasn’t any interruption.

“He isn’t really the study type. Plus, you wanted four hour study sessions.” Combeferre offers.

“—And he’s shown no outward signs of liking to be around me. He doesn’t sit by me, he doesn’t talk with me, he doesn’t seek me out. He hates me.” Silently, both Combeferre and Courfeyrac attribute that behavior to a very different reason. “And that’s fine, he’s allowed, as long as it doesn’t get him _killed.”_ Enjolras tightens a fist.

“We’re gonna save him,” Courfeyrac says, feeling like he’s said it a hundred times in the last ten minutes.

“I don’t want him to die,” Enjolras says, like he’s baffled. “And of course I don’t, why would I. But…” He seems lost. “It’s so strong. It’s like sitting here why he’s dying is physically painful. I’ve never felt so helpless.” Combeferre and Courfeyrac exchange glances again, before sharing a sigh.

“Waitress,” Courfeyrac calls, waving an arm.

The chili lies untouched.

* * *

 “Grantaire, there you are,” Combeferre says, waving him over. Grantaire smiles a goodbye at Jehan and Bahorel, a silent promise that he’ll come and meet with them in a few minutes to eat. As he heads towards Combeferre, he can’t help but feel a little whiplashed. Headquarters looks remarkably the same, but there are a few obvious differences. The bookcases are fuller, the back wall has a new coat of paint, the door has been replaced, it looked like they got solar powered light bulbs, there’s a painting over the TV, there’s a new lamp by the couch.

It’s disconcerting.

It’s also odd that everyone seems to be around. He can hear Feuilly in the kitchen making light talk with Bahorel, and Courfeyrac lightly chatting while sitting behind Cosette, braiding her hair. Cosette’s feet are in Marius’ lap, and Marius is playing Uno with Eponine. He hasn’t see Bossuet yet, but Joly’s here, so he knows Bossuet is definitely around somewhere.

“Hey,” he says when he gets to Combeferre.

“Hi,” he responds brightly, making Grantaire blink in surprise. “This case has been baffling me, and I was wondering if you’d take a look. Fresh pair of eyes and all that.”

Grantaire blinks at him.

“What?”

“This case has been hard for me—”

“No, I heard you,” Grantaire interrupts. “Why do you think _I’d_ be any help?”

“Because you’re easily one of the best at solving puzzles?” Combeferre answers, like it’s obvious.

“Combeferre, let him go, I need to speak with you a moment.” Enjolras says from behind Grantaire. He slips an arm around his shoulder, and kisses his cheek. “Go eat with Bahorel. I’ll tell him what happened.”

Grantaire nods, dazed.

 

Fifty minutes later, and they’re all huddled together, watching Saw IV. Grantaire has gotten the job of warning Marius when anything scary happens. Eponine has spent the entire movie leaning into his side, laughing into this shoulder at Marius’ gasps. Feuilly is leaning up against his legs, occasionally offering him popcorn. Bossuet finally appeared, and has been cracking jokes the entire film, completely ruining the atmosphere.

It’s the best Grantaire’s felt in years and years, possibly ever. The group, when together, is usually fun and casually intimate, but it feels like a parody to this. The love is obvious in the air, and everyone keeps asking Grantaire’s opinion. Bizarrely, he feels like the glue to the group, instead of a straggling member barely holding on with his pinky finger.

Enjolras is staring softly at him, Feuilly is throwing popcorn into his mouth, and as he leans into Marius, he never wants it to end.

* * *

 “God fucking _damn it,_ ” Enjolras yells, kicking an empty box at least thirty feet. Combeferre and Courfeyrac watch from ten feet away, feeling utterly helpless. “This is the _fourth_ goddamn abandoned warehouse we’ve been to.”

“There’s still six more possible warehouses on our list,” Courfeyrac says, trying to sound optimistic.

“And what happens after that? What happens after we go there, and the place is fucking empty?” Enjolras snarls, before swiping a box full of abandoned light bulbs off a metal table. They go flying, and shatter on the cement floor, echoing against the 40-foot high ceiling.

“Then we expand the search to include abandoned houses, and stores, and etc. Don’t lose hope, Enjolras.” Enjolras turns back to him, eyes so full of furious despair that Combeferre loses his train of thought. Enjolras bites his lip, so hard that the crimson blood covering it can be seen from twenty feet away.

“Let’s move out,” he mutters, brushing in between Courfeyrac and Combeferre, marching out of the building.

“What’s it going to do to him if we don’t find him?” Courfeyrac asks quietly.

“I don’t know,” Combeferre answers, staring at the door, and Courfeyrac knows how dire the situation must be for those words to pass his lips.

* * *

 It’s unsettling.

It shouldn’t be, but it’s unsettling.

He knows he missed over a year of bonding, but everyone is goddamn _nice_ all the time. They all keep asking to hang out with him, so much so that he doesn’t even get ten minutes to himself for days. Everyone wants his help and his opinion – and Grantaire tries to give it, and strangely, they all take it at face value, and listen to it. It also doesn’t feel as good as he thought it would, everyone wanting and trusting his judgments. It’s tiring, and he’s constantly worried someone else would be smarter, someone else is better fit, and he’s exhausted trying to do so much for everyone. Now that he’s a leader and can offer his opinion, and does offer it, he almost finds himself wishing he could just go back to being a follower.

Enjolras says this is normal, and Enjolras would know.

Enjolras is something else that deeply unsettles him. It’s not that Enjolras isn’t himself, because he is, the same rude, interrupting, stalking, fiery, oddly quiet man that Grantaire knows; but he’s _different_ around Grantaire now. He treats him as an equal, and is much softer, kinder, and more understanding. He takes what Grantaire says at face value, and doesn’t question it. He doesn’t badger him to learn, or to try to improve. He doesn’t argue with him, they aren’t getting on like clashing swords. What used to be intimate, tender, meaningful touches have turned into thoughtless everyday gestures.

It’s not that Enjolras is different, he’s just different with Grantaire, and he honestly doesn’t know if he likes it or not. It’s what he always secretly wanted, but it’s never what he thought a relationship with him would be like, when he let himself be caught up in fantasies.

He can’t pinpoint it, but it feels off.

He wonders if maybe they were having problems before, and it’s manifesting in a weird way. Then again, Grantaire has changed drastically from whom Enjolras was dating; maybe he doesn’t know how to act.

“Hey Grantaire, pass me that paper.” Grantaire obliges, before looking over at him. Enjolras is at his desk, while Grantaire is lying on the bed, pretend to read a novel.

“What are you doing?”

“Studying lore,” Enjolras answers, scribbling something down.

“Can we talk? We should talk.” Grantaire says suddenly. “I know you know me, but I still don’t know much about you. 16 months ago I was still pining furiously and silently.” Enjolras turns in his chair, smiling.

“Sure. What do you want to talk about?”

“I don’t know…what’s your favorite color?” Enjolras squints, then shrugs.

“I don't know. Yours is green.”

“I know,” Grantaire says, grinning. “You don’t have a favorite color – typical. Tell me about your childhood.”

“I lived with my mother,” Enjolras says. Grantaire waits for him to continue, and frowns when it becomes clear he isn’t going to.

“Yeah, I knew that. Tell me something else.” Enjolras shrugs.

“I don't know what to say. It was just a childhood.” Grantaire frowns at him, and then really takes him in.

Enjolras is sitting in his best jeans, in his best shirt, with his hair looking perfect, with perfect posture, studying on a late Friday night. In the last several days, he’s done nothing but intermittently hover around Grantaire, and plan hunts. He’s always dressed to perfection. When he wakes up, his hair looks perfect, instead of the curly mess it really should be.

To put it simply, all this time, he’s been perfect.

Not human.

Someone in a relationship of over 8 months should feel comfortable enough to slouch, or to put on a worn t-shirt, or to have his hair messy. Enjolras isn’t a robot; he takes time off from work, he hangs out, he plays games, he reads, he throws temper tantrums, he silently broods about cheerios.

He’s lovely and a better person than he can ever hope to be, and Grantaire adores him, but he’s not perfect.

He never imagined a relationship with him in too defined terms, because he didn’t want to give himself mental images, but he didn’t think a relationship was one where one was a goddamn perfect illusion of a person. If he thought about it now, he’d imagine playing with marshmallows in the dead of night, waking up to grumpy, sleepy Enjolras, leaning against him when tired, playing with his hair while he was reading, getting soft smiles, getting angry and throwing things, making forts, watching movies together.

He’d imagine intimacy, not perfection.

“Is something wrong?” Enjolras asks. Grantaire smiles back weakly, feeling queasy.

* * *

 “He’s here,” Enjolras breathes.

“I know, I can see,” Combeferre whispers.

“I’ve got your left, Ferre has your right, we move on the count of three.” Courfeyrac murmurs.

This warehouse was the second to last on their list, being rather further out than Combeferre thought the djinn could comfortably run carrying a person. It was dark out, being far past midnight, and it’d been beyond spooky to find. The place was a ruin; moldy, creaking, rotting wood held the place together in the general shape of a building. Animals prowled around it, and Courfeyrac could have sworn he saw the gleaming yellow eyes of a black wolf, as ridiculous as it sounded. The lot was cracked pavement, making it treacherous to walk around in the inky black night. Combeferre had wanted to wait until morning for this one, but Enjolras begged for this one, just one more, and he’d relented. There was broken glass all over the ground, and the door had almost dissolved in dirt when they opened it. The wooden floor of the place had obviously rotten through, and grass was growing through the floor, clawing its sneaky stems into the place, turning it into a natural mausoleum.

After they opened the door, Enjolras snuck in, ignoring the tired ache throughout his body. In reality, he feels like collapsing. He hasn’t slept in at least 48 hours, his leg hurts like a bitch, he’s emotionally drained, and so worried his heart aches with every pound. He wants a bed.

But even more, he wants to stab this motherfucker in the heart.

They turned a corner, and Enjolras had almost shouted in surprise. The djinn was in the middle of the room, obviously feeding, a prime time to attack. He was feeding off a girl strung up by her arms, probably the one taken before Grantaire.

And there he was, hanging from a rafter, his hands tied above his head, feet barely touching the ground. He was pallor, his blue veins bulging out from under his skin. He had a large needle sticking out from his neck, which led to the bottle that the djinn was draining his blood into.

Enjolras felt cold, white rage, but managed to wait until Coufeyrac’s mark of three.

And silently, silently, they pad up behind him. Enjolras wants this so badly his body is literally thrumming, like a guitar string taut. He manages to keep his pace even, sneaking up behind the massive creature. Just as he is within reaching distance, Combeferre steps on a broken bottle, the glass crunching under his foot. The djinn turns, and Courfeyrac leaps, holding it in place, as Enjolras thrusts the knife straight into his heart. Its face freezes in shock, and it falls to the ground with a rather final thump, making no other noise.

It’s strangely anticlimactic, and Enjolras can’t help but feel supremely unsatisfied.

Ignoring it, he hurries over to Grantaire.

“Combeferre, cut his hands down,” he calls. Combeferre runs over, grabs a pocket knife out of his breast pocket, and cuts him down. He collapses into Enjolras arms, not moving.

“Come on, come on, wake up, Grantaire, wake up,” Enjolras says, slapping his face. “Damn it, _wake up_.”

“He needs a doctor, now,” Combeferre says.

“They do too,” Courfeyrac states, who has been checking the victims.

“Grantaire first,” Enjolras says, bending to pick him up, bridal style.

“Enjolras, the others have been here for far longer than Grantaire, some for weeks more. They’re in more desperate need.”

“Then call a fucking ambulance,” Enjolras snaps.

“I will, I promise, but we need to prioritize here. We can fit one of them in my car, another in yours, and get them to the hospital the fastest. The other three will have to wait.”

“Grantaire goes with me,” Enjolras says, voice firm.

“Two of them have been here more than three weeks—” Courfeyrac starts.

“Grantaire goes with me.” Enjolras repeats, tone leaving no room for comment. They both nod, Combeferre pulling out his phone, Courfeyrac grabbing one victim, and Enjolras hurrying out the door with Grantaire, trying to ignore the ache in his leg, and the furious worry clouding his every thought.

* * *

 “He’s out, we saved him. When’s he going to wake up?” Courfeyrac asks, voice anxious. Enjolras is silent, staring at Grantaire’s still and sleeplike form.

“It’s up to him,” Combeferre says quietly. “He’d die if the djinn kept draining him of blood, but the djinn already cast the spell that keeps him in the trance. Grantaire has to die in the dream world to wake up in the real one.”

“He knows you have to die in there, right?” Courfeyrac asks. Enjolras nods, not looking away from his stare at Grantaire. “If his consciousness is in there, maybe he’ll figure it out.”

“Especially now that the djinn is dead, the spell is probably less powerful. If it needs any upkeep or attention, it won’t get it. It may start having holes, and Grantaire could possibly tell what’s happening. I wouldn’t lose hope yet.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Enjolras says, making Combeferre still and Courfeyrac’s gaze snap to him.

“Why the hell not?” Courfeyrac demands.

“Because even if he figures out, he’s not coming back. He’ll choose to stay in there, in the fictional reality.” Courfeyrac makes a skeptical noise, and Combeferre goes so far as to snort.

“I highly doubt—” Combeferre starts.

“I know it,” Enjolras interrupts. “I know it.”

He hasn’t moved or averted his gaze the entire time. Courfeyrac sends a worried look to Combeferre, before sliding up behind Enjolras, leaning his chin on his shoulder, and circling his arms around him.

Grantaire’s heart monitor beeps slowly, steadily, and unchanging. 

* * *

 “Grantaire, when are you going to paint again? You said you’d make me one, like, a month ago.” Grantaire startles, and looks over at Bossuet.

“Make you a painting?” He repeats, astonished.

“Yeah?”

“He forgot, Bossuet,” Joly says, from the armchair across the way.

“Oh, right, I’m sorry,” Bossuet apologizes.

“No, it’s fine. But paint? I’m painting again?”

“Yeah,” Joly says. “That one’s yours.” He points to the one hanging over the TV, and Grantaire scrambles to see. It’s a watercolor, something he always struggled with, and it looks vaguely like the night sky over a cow.

“You made a cow friend after a hunt, and made this to commemorate it.”

“Animals hate me,” Grantaire says distantly, staring at the painting. This – this is near unbelievable. He gave art up permanently after failing out of college; failing – that had been particularly painful since he had been disinherited only eight months before for refusing to go to business school, because art was his _passion_ – hindsight really is a bitch.

It’s not a brilliant painting, but it’s better than anything he’d ever been able to do.

“What made me start again?” Grantaire asks.

“You said you wanted to,” Bossuet answers, his foot playing with Joly’s. “You said you finally felt ready.”

“Felt ready.” Grantaire repeats. He can hardly believe it, but there’s his signature, a tiny little green R in the corner. “It’s not shaky,” he mutters to himself. His R’s were always shaky since he could only paint drunk, it seemed, after he lost everything he had, his parents, his sister, the dog, his home, for it.

He still remembered his last painting, a freaky, scary little thing that probably could have been sold to the prop department of a movie about a mental ward. He was high on LSD, only the second, and last, time he ever took it, high because he couldn’t quite get over losing his family and losing his purpose all in one year, and he basically grabbed all of his paints, put them on his fingernails, and scraped them on a little canvas. When he awoke, tired, and feeling like a complete failure, the canvas in front of him had fingernail markings, pins sticking into it, yellow and black curls, purple splotches, green dots.

It probably could have worked as a modernist piece, and he loathed it from the bottom of his scared, sad heart. He threw it out the window, threw a bottle of beer at it, and never looked back.

Until, apparently now.

The R wasn’t shaky.

“How am I this person?” Grantaire asks, feeling confused and oddly upset.

“You’re a great person,” Bossuet says. Grantaire turns.

“Now I am. How did I get to this point? It’s not that I don’t love being here, because I do, but…I feel great. I don’t suffer anymore, I don’t get withdrawal symptoms, I’m not depressed. I always hoped to be here, but I didn’t have to go through journey of getting here. I didn’t get the moments that turned it around. I didn’t get to feel getting better. I don’t even know how I did it. I don’t even get to feel proud of himself.”

“Hey,” Joly says softly, getting up. “You can still feel proud. You’re here, you’ve obviously made it. What’s it matter if you remember it?”

“It matters, I think.” Grantaire frowns. “I think, I don’t know. How did I go from such a worthless person—”

“You’re not worthless,” Bossuet snaps. Grantaire blinks. “Don’t talk that way about my best friend.”

“That another thing, when did that happen? I’m not your best friend. You’re mine, but yours is Joly. And that’s fine. That’s okay. That’s the way the world should be.”

“Don’t you want me as your best friend?” Bossuet asks, wounded.

“I do,” Grantaire replies, frustrated. “But your best friend is Joly. It’s not me. When did that change?”

Bossuet goes to reply, but suddenly, something shifts. It feels like what ever has been clouding his mind recently vanishes, and suddenly, he remembers.

Enjolras.

A hunt.

The djinn.

With a deep, gasping breath, Grantaire runs to the kitchen, and grabs a butcher knife.

* * *

 “He’s going to be alright,” Combeferre says, laying a hand on his shoulder. Enjolras just nods, his head still bowed. “Are you going to be alright?” Combeferre feels him shrug.

“I suppose,” he mutters after a few moments. “He didn’t deserve this.”

“No one does,” Combeferre replies.

“Grantaire really, really doesn’t. He never does anything wrong. He’s always so gentle, and so kind. He’s too tender for this kind of business. He talks a big game, but, in his heart, he’s soft.”

“And you want to protect that.”

“I wish I could,” Enjolras says, closing his eyes. “I want him around, I always want him around, but I want him safe and far away from this killing business, but he has no reason to be around if he isn’t hunting. It’s a catch 22.”

“He would probably stay for us.”

“Possibly,” Enjolras mutters. “Possibly. But he wouldn’t be happy. And he should be happy. He’s had a hard life, and all I want is to make it easier, but look—” he gestures to the bed. “Look how much better I’ve made his life.”

“I think you should let him make the assessment of whether you’ve added or detracted from his life.”

“He didn’t deserve it.”

“Neither did the other four victims. Life is indiscriminate that way.”

“Combeferre.” He stops, takes a breath, and restarts. “Combeferre, I scared myself.”

“How so?”

“I was willing to give up four victim’s lives just to save Grantaire’s.”

“It’s human to value your friend’s life over those of strangers. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I’m supposed to be above that.”

“We all have our line,” Combeferre says softly.

“This shouldn’t be mine,” Enjolras replied, voice shaky. “He _shouldn’t._ ”

“Possibly,” Combeferre agrees. “But unfortunately, we don’t get to choose that, and what it is becomes unavoidably apparent at one time or another this line of work.”

“I shouldn’t choose him over four people. It’s not logical.”

“Sometimes it doesn’t feel like a choice.”

“There’s always a choice,” Enjolras tries to say forcefully, but his voice breaks in the middle.

“Do you think you would have made the wrong one, choosing him over the others, if it came to that? Is that an unacceptable line? If it came to that, and you saved the victims, but left Grantaire to die, could you sit here and be okay with that decision?” Combeferre asks. Enjolras stares at him a moment, face uncharacteristically emotional, before he chokes down a slight slob, rubs his forehead, and leans his head against Grantaire’s bed. He doesn’t move for near an hour, even after he feels Combeferre’s light, one armed embrace, and even after the nurse comes in to check vitals, and even after the sun starts dipping down across the horizon.

* * *

 “What are you doing with that?” Joly screeches.

“I’ve got to kill myself,” Grantaire says, hyperventilating.

“What?” Bossuet yells. “Fuck no, friend, that’s not happening.”

“I have to, it’s the only way to go back.”

“Go back? Go back _where?_ ”

“Back to reality,” Grantaire says. “Back to life.” He turns his head, hearing feet coming from the other direction. His heart skips a beat.

“I heard yelling, what’s happening?” Enjolras asks. His eyes go wide when he sees the knife. “What’s happening?”

“Grantaire thinks killing himself will take him to reality.” Joly says, sounding manic.

“Put the knife _down,_ ”Enjolras commands.

“No, I can’t do that,” Grantaire says. He’s felt suicidal before, but never to the point of action. Now that he’s faced with actually having to do it, he knows he never would have gone through with it before.

Enjolras’ face darkens, and takes a step towards the Grantaire. Grantaire points the knife at him.

“Don’t come closer. Don’t stop me.” Enjolras halts.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says, voice soft, loving. “Please. I love you. I respect you. Don’t.”

“I’m going to miss that,” Grantaire says, voice choking up a little. “I am, even if I’ve known something is wrong with it this entire time. I’ll still miss it. The real you would never say that. The real you probably wouldn’t even think I had the strength to leave. It’ll probably be the first thing he says to me when I wake up.”

“This is the real me,” Enjolras says, hands up. “This is me. There is no ‘other me.’ I need you to stay.”

Briefly, Grantaire thinks about the fact that he’s arguing with his own subconscious, and finds it so ridiculous, he almost laughs, despite the fact that nothing about this is remotely funny.

“Stop pretending. You’re me, you’re a part of me, and I _know_ this isn’t real.”

“Grantaire, honey—”

“Stop pretending!” Grantaire shouts, feeling manic, waving his knife around. “I know! I know, okay, I remembered, I figured it out. Stop pretending!” The faces around him stay concerned for a few moments, before falling into a knowing, sad look. If this were a movie, the music would have stopped.

“This doesn’t have to change anything,” Joly says, taking a step forward.

“You can still die out there, and live in here,” Combeferre says, appearing out of nowhere, starling Grantaire. “They’ve probably already stopped looking for you out there.”

“You can still live here with us, forever in your own mind, where it’s at peace instead of the fucked up mess it usually is. The spell puts your mind on overdrive, so your body may die, but you’ll be in here, for a lifetime. With us. With those who love you.” Bossuet says, putting an arm around Joly.

“The people out there love me, the real people,” Grantaire spits out, throat feeling raw. His knife is still up.

“You don’t believe that,” Courfeyrac says, with a sad smile. “Otherwise we wouldn’t be different in here to how we are in real life.”

“I don’t think they hate me,” Grantaire replies, not knowing how to disagree.

“They don’t love you. They don’t care for you. They don’t actually like being around you. Enjolras certainly doesn’t love you. You had to create us, to be what you _wish_ they would be. In reality, they’re the opposite of this. They’re the opposite of what you want. Why would you go back to that? Why wouldn’t you stay with us, who truly care for you?” Grantaire lets out a strangled, angry sob. These people are pretending to represent his dreams, his hopes, the best parts of him, the lightest, the happiest, his deepest most intimate wishes corporal – but they’re actually manifestations of his worst nightmares, the representation of all his fears; they’re living, breathing reminders that he has to make imaginary friends because his real ones don’t want anything to do with him.

They’re saying what he’s always privately believed, but hearing it out of their mouths, he’s horrified. He doesn’t know _how_ he could have thought any of it – seeing the words come out of Joly’s mouth isn’t only horrific; it’s also deeply, profoundly _wrong._ Joly would never, ever, say those words, nor come close to meaning them. Courfeyrac would never try to convince him he’s unloved; Courfeyrac doesn’t even dislike the _postman,_ let alone someone he willingly has dinner with three times a week. Combeferre wouldn’t give up on trying to save his life; Combeferre once stopped on the side of a highway at 5AM, after being up for 60 straight hours on a hunt, to save a sparrow hatchling, and are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Bossuet wouldn’t make cracks about mental illness, and definitely wouldn’t look down on someone for it; his mother had dementia and he spent every other moment with her until she died.

He knew all this before, and had tried applying it to himself before, but it always felt like trying to convince himself, not like a reality.

But in here, with them being living embodiments of what he believed, he finally sees these thoughts for what they are – senseless, destructive lies.

And these people, they are trying to convince him to stay. They’re grotesque mannequins of the best people he knows, living dummies, and in this moment, he despises them.

“If you go back,” Enjolras says, taking a step towards him. “You won’t have me. You won’t ever have me.”

“I don’t need you,” Grantaire almost laughs out. “I want you, but I don’t need you.”

“You need people who love you,” Combeferre interjects. “You need confirmed support and love, which you only have here. If you go out there, you’ll always wonder if they’re simply faking. You’ll never be sure that they love you.”

“That’s _humanity,”_ Grantaire yells back, voice echoing in the chamber. “You never know, you can’t know, because people have their own autonomy, and you can’t know. You just got to believe them.”

“But you’d _know_ in here,” Enjolras says, looking loving and hopeful and adoring and all that he shouldn’t be.

“I don’t need to need to know,” Grantaire says, amazed to find that he truly, honestly believes it.

“Then think about your mind,” Jehan says, appearing behind him out of nowhere, making Grantaire startle again. “You’re finally at peace. You’re finally healed.”

“And I’ll miss it,” Grantaire nods. “I will. But that’s not reality. In life, you’re given the brain you’re given, and it’s an upward battle, and it sucks, and I’ve made a fucking mess of my body, and I’ll miss being flawless.”

Grantaire remembers the first verbal fight he got in with Enjolras, only six days after he had arrived at headquarters. They had been watching a news report about the Ukrainian revolution, and that somehow led to an argument about the necessity for revolution. Enjolras believed that violence on behalf of, or by, the people was a necessity when the people were being subjugated and harmed. Grantaire stayed with the pacifists, fighting an ignorance is bliss, and ‘they’ll lose anyway’ side.

But with the question – what would you rather have, peace, or freedom? – he’s starting to understand Enjolras’ side.

 “I don’t need this. I don’t need to be perfect. I don’t need everyone to love me. I don’t need you, or this, or any of this. By God, I want it, I want it so, so badly, but I don’t need it.”

“What do you need, Grantaire? Say the world, we’ll give it to you. We just want you to stay. What do you need?” Enjolras asks. Grantaire stares at him, tears still welled in his eyes.

“I need me. The real me. I miss the fucker.” With a final glance, a final steadying breath, a final irresistible note of regret, Grantaire stabs the knife into his own heart, hard.

It feels like absolution.

* * *

 “Auntie Em,” Grantaire rasps, voice sounding like gravel. All three heads shoot up. “There’s no place like home.”

“Oh my God, oh my God,” Courfeyrac says, bouncing out of his seat, over to Grantaire. Combeferre has a shocked, ecstatic smile on, and he moves over to grip Grantaire’s hand tightly. Only Enjolras remains still, head up, eyes staring wide in disbelief. Grantaire takes several shallow breaths, trying to get up the energy to smile at his friends, his real friends, the friends he honestly, truly missed. He manages a grimace.

Physically, his head is pounding, his throat burns, his eyes ache, he feels tired to his core, he feels bruised head to toe, and overall, exceptionally drained. Beyond that, though, the veins in his head throb, they way they do when he’s been too long without a drink, and his throat aches, in the way it does when it desperately demanding a cigarette, and he feels off center, like he does when his body is reminding him that, yes, you did cocaine at one time in your life. He feels saddened, in that dark, encompassing, listless way that it always is with depression, and he feel pointless, and young, and worthless, and doubting, and remarkably self conscious for someone who has every right to be looking and feeling like shit.

“How do you feel?” Courfeyrac asks, anxious.

“Like myself,” Grantaire replies honestly.

“Good, good,” Courfeyrac says, sounding relieved.

“Yeah,” Grantaire agrees softly. “I suppose so.”

“You came back.” Enjolras finally says. Grantaire rolls his head so he can look at him. Enjolras looks disheveled and undignified in a way he never has before, but Grantaire can’t even summon the energy to worry about why.

“I did.”

“I didn’t think you would,” Enjolras says, which makes Grantaire’s heart do a familiar squeeze, and tears fill his eyes. He starts to cry, which instantly brings him a bought of comforting from Courfeyrac that he doesn’t even know if he wants or not. He shoves a hand over his mouth to muffle the sobs.

“It’s okay, you’re back, you’re back how you were, you’re back to the real world, everyone’s exactly as you left them,” Courfeyrac says, petting his hair, trying to soothe him.

 _That’s the entire problem,_ Grantaire doesn’t say.

* * *

 Courfeyrac and Combeferre leave after two hours, going to meet some of the Les Amis who finally arrived from finishing their hunts. It’s just Enjolras and Grantaire, both sitting in relative, almost awkward, silence. Grantaire’s on the edge of sleep again when Enjolras clears his throat.

“So,” Enjolras starts, before stopping abruptly to stare at his hands.

“So?” Grantaire prompts, turning his head to stare at him. Enjolras looks shaken, but he takes a breath, and looks him in the eye.

“So, what’d you dream of?”

“That’s a little personal, isn’t it?” Grantaire says, hands starting to twist his bedsheets.

“You don’t have to tell me. I was just curious.” It goes silent for a few moments. Grantaire can hear his heart monitor beeping, and it’s oddly reassuring – this is real, this is life, this is reality. He is who he really is – a young, small, rather inept, untalented, insignificant young man who won’t achieve the respect, admiration, or love of a man by pretending to be someone he’s not, nor by being who he really is. And, oddly, that’s okay.

Grantaire looks over to the door, staring fixedly at the doorknob.

“I dreamed I was a famous artist, living back in Ireland with my sister. I had a dog named Rex, after the dinosaur, and my parents lived next door, and actually accepted me.”

“Makes sense,” Enjolras replies, fingers drumming on the bed. “Combeferre said that people usually dream for what they deeply want but know they’ll never have. In your case, the love and acceptance of your shit family.”

“Yeah. Love and acceptance,” Grantaire repeats. He stares at Enjolras for a moment, before looking away, towards the door. He doesn’t look back.

* * *

“Someone has to stay with the two of you,” Courfeyrac says, flipping through a magazine. Enjolras huffs, annoyed.

“We’ll be perfectly fine by ourselves. You should go back with Combeferre, finish the hunt.”

“If this little adventure has taught us anything, it’s that you two are most certainly _not_ fine by yourselves. Feuilly is going back with him. You’re stuck with me. So, I’ll be watching you. Don’t do anything stupid.”

Enjolras grumbles, and readjusts himself on the couch.

It’s been a week, and Grantaire is finally home from the hospital. Enjolras wanted to hover around him, be sure he’s okay, that he has everything he needs, but Grantaire always makes an annoyed, hurt sound whenever he hovers, like a puppy who just had its paw stepped. The second they arrived home, Enjolras didn’t even get to offer him food; Grantaire immediately stalked over to his bedroom, and locked himself in. He’s barely left since.

Enjolras is trying vehemently to pretend it doesn’t bother him.

Apparently, a solid two-minute stare at Grantaire’s door isn’t quite subtle enough, because Courfeyrac sighs at him.

“You need to give him time. Djinn’s mess with the brain chemistry, and he’s probably feeling all out of place and confused.”

“I just want him to talk to me.” Enjolras tries not to whine.

“Let me go try,” Courfeyrac says, getting up. “Rest your leg. He may talk to me, you never know.”

Enjolras is torn between desperately wanting _someone_ to get to the bottom of what’s wrong, and not wanting it to be anyone but himself. Finally, he just gives a little nod, and picks up a magazine.

Courfeyrac heads over to the door, and knocks lightly.

“Grantaire?” He asks, voice soft. “Could we talk a minute?”

The door stays shut for about ten seconds, and then creaks open. Courfeyrac ignores Enjolras’ confused, almost indignant, face, and walks in.

Grantaire doesn’t look so great.

He smells a little, obviously hasn’t showered, is in old, ratty clothes, and is now back to sitting on the bed, his head between his legs.

“Are you okay? We’re worried about you,” Coufeyrac says, putting a hand on his back, lightly caressing him. Grantaire twitches under the touch.

“It’s just hard,” Grantaire mutters. “Going back to feeling addiction.” Courfeyrac’s hand falters, and starts again. “I have to get used to it. In my mind, I was in there for weeks.”

“You dreamed you…” Courfeyrac wasn’t sure how to finish that sentence without being offensive. Grantaire snorts, like he knows.

“Yeah. Didn’t want alcohol, drugs, nicotine, food, sleep. The djinn must have some powerful voodoo to shove all that down.”

“Must have been nice,” Courfeyrac says, not sure what to say.

“It really, really was,” Grantaire says, voice a little broken. “And I wouldn’t trade myself for it, I wouldn’t, but God, I feel like shit again. And my brain won’t shut up.”

“What do you mean?”

“Inside the dream, my brain shut up. It wasn’t constantly yelling at me, having me second guess myself, having me question whether you’re here out of genuine friendship or out of some misguided guilt.”

“Friendship,” Courfeyrac confirms, voice firm. Grantaire gives him a little, broken smile. “Was I there, then?”

Grantaire nods.

“I thought you told Enjolras you dreamed you were back with your family.” Grantaire laughs, and flings himself backwards on the bed, so he’s staring at the ceiling.

“I lied.”

“Why?”

“I don’t think he really wanted to know my fantasies about certain members.” Courfeyrac swallows, understanding.

“You and him, then?” He asks, lying down so he’s side by side with Grantaire, but not looking at his face, so he won't feel pressured. Grantaire doesn’t answer for a very long moment.

“Yeah,” he finally confirms. “Yeah.” Courfeyrac reaches over, and grabs his hand. “But you know, it wasn’t even about being loved by him. It was about being someone he could love.”

Courfeyrac makes a vague, _go on_ , noise.

“I don’t know,” Grantaire mutters. “But everyone else was basically the same, you know? I didn’t have fantasies that Bossuet finally learned how to cook, or Eponine moved on from her hopeless love, or Enjolras was less passionate, or anything else. Everyone else was the same. The only thing that changed was me, and thus how people reacted to me.

“In there, people wanted to be around me. People liked me, wanted me. I was talented, I was good for something.” Courfeyrac’s hand tightens, making Grantaire close his eyes against tears.

“It’s just hard, knowing your deepest desire is to be nothing like yourself.”

“But you gave it up,” Courfeyrac reminds.

“I did,” Grantaire confirms. “I did.”

“Can I ask why?”

“Because, I guess, I’d rather have me.”

“We’d rather have you too. That goes for all of us. We wouldn’t want that Grantaire if it meant losing this Grantaire.”

Courfeyrac hears him take a long, unsteady breath, before clutching his hand tightly. It’s more than thanks enough.

* * *

Things improve after that.

It’s been another week, and Coufeyrac has gone back out on a hunt with Eponine, something about ghosts that Grantaire didn’t really listen to. Jehan is back, and he’s been fussing around Grantaire constantly, making sure he’s feeling okay and has everything he needs.

It’s slightly annoying, but it feels so nice to be fussed over, Grantaire just lets him.

Grantaire is currently lying on the couch, sketching. About two minutes in, Enjolras comes out and joins him, reading a book that looks something like a sci-fi about robots.

It’s difficult to look at him, knowing what it feels to wake up pressed against him, and to watch a movie leaning into him, and to have held his hand, and seen a truly wanting smile, but he’s managing it.

He’s at the cow's nostril when Jehan bounds into the room, obviously fresh out of the shower.

“Can we watch a movie?” He says, vaulting himself onto the couch, directly onto Grantaire’s legs.

“Sure,” Grantaire laughs, throwing down the sketchbook. “Alright with you, Enjolras?”

Enjolras nods, still looking at his book.

“Can we watch Saw IV? It’s on TV tonight.”

“You don’t want to do that,” Grantaire says, shaking his head. “You hated it.”

“I’ve never seen it,” Jehan says, cocking his head.

“In fantasy djinn land, we watched it together, and you despised it.”

“But that’s wasn’t really me—”

“In what?” Enjolras says, too loud. They both turn to stare over. His book has fallen from his hand.

“What?” Grantaire says, feeling self-conscious.

“You said in the djinn fantasy you were with your family, not with us. Jehan was there?” Grantaire stops breathing.

Recognizing the tension, Jehan gives Grantaire a pat on the head.

“I’m going to blow dry my hair before it curls,” he says, leaving them alone.

Grantaire hears the ticking of the clock, it’s so quiet. He’s just staring, wide eyed at Enjolras, who is refusing to look away.

“Who was there?” Enjolras asks, after many, long, long moments.

“Everyone,” Grantaire finally stutters out. “I was here. I wasn’t with my parents – I fucking hate my parents. I haven’t seen my sister in over ten years, and the last I did, she laughed at me for, and I quote, ‘fucking up my entire life in one fell swoop.’ I don’t have any desire to see them ever again.”

“You lied,” Enjolras breathes. “Why did you lie? What did you really dream?”

“I was here,” Grantaire says, swallowing. “With all of you. We we’re all just…really close. I fit in.” It’s not a lie, but it’s not the whole truth, but it’s as close as Grantaire’s willing to get.

“Why would you dream of that?” Enjolras says, more to himself. “You already have that.”

“Didn’t think I did,” Grantaire answers. With that, Enjolras leaves his chair, sits by Grantaire, and pulls him into an awkward, hard hug.

“I like it when you do that,” Grantaire mutters, after Enjolras had leaned his head on his shoulder in the hug.

“When have we hugged?” Enjolras says, voice muffled.

“Never here.” Enjolras pulls back, much to Grantaire’s distaste, and stares him in the face. Grantaire’s heart is doing flutters again, little patterings he just can’t help.

“You dreamed about us hugging?” Grantaire’s slightly tempted to say _I dreamed about us fucking,_ because he desperately wants to see Enjolras’ face, but it’s not even strictly true, so he keeps his mouth shut.

“Were we close there?” Enjolras asks, voice soft and prodding. His hands are still around Grantaire’s neck, though they’re no longer hugging, and it keeps his face far too close to Grantaire’s for comfort.

“Impossibly close,” Grantaire answers.

“Why impossible?”

“Is any amount of intimacy not impossible?” Grantaire asks, feeling whiplashed.

Enjolras just stares at him, heart pounding. Neither look away, and Enjolras is leaning in, slowly, slowly, slowly, giving Grantaire ample time to move back, move away.

He doesn’t, although he looks terrified.

And suddenly, they’re close enough that they feel each other’s breath, both a bit shallow, both a bit wheezy.

“Is this okay?” Enjolras asks. Grantaire feels the words on his lips, Enjolras breath swirling around them. He swallows, and nods.

Enjolras leans the rest of the distance, and puts his lips on his.

Grantaire doesn’t know what to do. His hands are clutching at nothing, and thankfully he remembers to close his eyes, but he’s shaking slightly, and he suddenly all too aware that this is an awkward position for Enjolras, and he’s probably uncomfortable, and maybe he should move away, but God, this is real _,_ this is _real_ –

Enjolras moves back slightly, just so they’re not touching.

“I think this would be more comfortable if you laid down,” he says. He gives Grantaire a light push, which has him scrambling back to lay on the couch.

Enjolras comes with him, descending down, and Grantaire gets an eyeful of Enjolras lowering himself down onto Grantaire, and it’s a moment that will be seared into his brain for as long as he shall live.

Their lips meet again, and this time, Grantaire feels slightly sturdier. He’s boxed in, he can’t move anything but his arms, and they instinctively come up to cradle the back of Enjolras’ head, pulling him deeper in. And with a slight tug on his hair, mouths are opening, and the kiss is deepening, and Enjolras is starting to pant in his mouth, and he _knows_ this is happening, but he doesn’t know _why_ this is happening, and he can feel his arms shaking as they hold Enjolras in.

He pulls back just slightly, and Enjolras puts his head in the hole of Grantaire’s shoulder and neck, exactly as he loves.

“Just so you know, this is going to take some time to convince me that you actually want this.”

“Luckily, we have time,” Enjolras says. “Welcome to your new reality.”

**Author's Note:**

> I was so, so, so very close to ending this with Grantaire in the hospital, lying about what he dreamed. And even though that would probably technically be better, I will sacrifice literary merit for a happy ending, sue me.
> 
> Previously titled "A Dream Is a Wish Your Heart Makes." Retitled because I thought of something better, so, you know. Oh well. 
> 
> Say hi on [tumblr](http://raeldaza.tumblr.com) if you so want.


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